


Potential Energy

by cmdonovann



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdonovann/pseuds/cmdonovann
Summary: Linhardt does something foolish. Surprisingly, he doesn't regret it.Content warning for mention of injury and blood.Not beta'd, so please pardon any errors."How I wish you could see the potentialThe potential of you and me;It's like a book elegantly bound butIn a language that you can't read just yet."(Lyrics from "I Will Possess Your Heart" by Death Cab For Cutie.)
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Potential Energy

"Ah!" Linhardt grimaces in pain as the professor releases him from his grasp, lowering him to sit on a large rock, the river not more than a few feet away. Nearby, the rest of professor Byleth's class is taking care of the aftermath of their monthly mission, a group of bandits that had been plaguing the merchants in town around Garreg Mach.

"Apologies," Byleth says quietly, eyeing the wound on Linhardt's shoulder. Half an arrow sticks out from his upper arm, embedded in the deltoid muscle, his uniform soaked with blood around it.

"It's fine," Linhardt hisses through gritted teeth. He looks down at the injury, wondering if he can heal it himself. "Oh, who am I kidding? I'm going to pass out."

Byleth's eyes widen for a split second, standing quickly to reach an arm around and support Linhardt's back as he slumps over, the world swirling around him.

"Linhardt," Byleth says, his urgent tone not matching the blank look on his face. "Stay focused."

Unfortunately for him, Linhardt can't seem to keep his focus around Byleth. It's probably why he's in this situation, if he's honest.

The problem isn't necessarily Byleth himself, but Linhardt's constant worry about him. He overthinks every word he says to the professor, every brief interaction, lying awake at night pondering what he should have said or fretting over whether he came off the way he wanted. Then, of course, he finds himself dozing off throughout the day, much to the professor's frustration. It's a problem in class, certainly, but it's even worse to be drowsy in combat.

Byleth hasn't lectured him about the issue yet, which Linhardt is immensely grateful for. But he has only been in Byleth's class for a month now; after a particularly pleasant invitation to tea turned into a chance for him to gush about his interest in crests to a genuinely attentive Byleth, Linhardt found himself head over heels in a manner he had never experienced before and had absolutely no idea how to articulate. So he joined professor Byleth's class, and now here he is, with an arrow in his arm and a stone-faced Byleth leaning over him.

"Sorry," Linhardt says, falling back against his professor's lap. "That... was not the smartest move I have ever made."

"Hush," Byleth mutters, pulling the dagger from his belt and cutting the fabric of Linhardt's uniform away from his injury carefully. Linhardt winces again, jerking away from the pain in his shoulder, and Byleth places one palm over his heart to still him. It's surprisingly warm against his now bare skin.

"I should thank you," Byleth says, working more slowly. "That arrow would have hit me had you not acted so quickly."

"It was stupid," Linhardt says, grimacing. "But sometimes that's all I can do."

He replays the moment in his head over and over, knowing he will be having nightmares about it for weeks. The archer taking aim at Byleth. Byleth's face, turned toward him, splattered with blood after cutting down the man who had charged Linhardt with an axe. The horrible moment of realization as the archer loosed his arrow, and the split second of absolute terror in Linhardt's gut as he leapt forward to grab his professor's shoulder, warping him out of harm's way.

Then the impact.

He had feared, for a moment, that he had failed. That the horrible sound was the arrow striking Byleth in the back, unaware. Then the adrenaline had worn off, and the fiery pain in his shoulder told him he had not failed. Not completely.

"You aren't stupid, Linhardt." Byleth's voice drags him back to reality. "That may be the bravest thing I've ever seen you do."

With that, Byleth pulls the arrow from Linhardt's shoulder, and it's all he can do not to scream.

"I'm sorry," Byleth says, holding Linhardt still again, one hand pressed firmly down on his chest and the other gripping his injured arm. "That's the worst of it."

Linhardt closes his eyes, trying to remember how to breathe. Instead he laughs, shaky and painful.

"Hah! If this is what bravery gets me, I would rather be a coward."

Byleth says nothing. Linhardt feels a splash of cold river water against his arm, followed by a radiating warmth. He forces his tired eyes open, looking up at Byleth.

The professor's face is stiff with concentration, his eyes fixed on Linhardt's wounded shoulder, one hand placed over it glowing faintly with white light.

"I— I didn't realize you knew healing magic." Linhardt blinks up at him, feeling incredibly foolish. If the professor can heal, what good can he do?

"I have been learning recently," Byleth says, not breaking his concentration, eyes still fixed on his work. "I'm afraid this may leave a scar. I am not proficient yet, but it seems Mercedes is busy with Ignatz at present."

Linhardt closes his eyes again, still feeling dizzy. "It's fine, really. Better to be scarred than dead, I suppose."

"That's true," Byleth says, tone as flat as ever. "You may acclimate to the battlefield yet, Linhardt."

"I'd rather not," Linhardt replies, his voice mimicking Byleth's monotone without thinking. His shoulder is starting to feel less like it's on fire, and he takes a deep breath, feeling Byleth's other hand still steady on his sternum.

"What _do_ you want, Linhardt?" Byleth asks, his voice suddenly soft.

Linhardt opens his eyes, looking up at his professor. Warmth radiates from him; not just his healing hand, but his whole body, the slight smile in his eyes that would be imperceptible if not for Linhardt's proximity to him.

"This," Linhardt says without thinking. His face grows hot suddenly, realizing what he's said. "I mean—"

"I understand," Byleth says, finally meeting his gaze. He moves his hand from Linhardt's shoulder, running one finger over the newly-healed skin. He pauses for a moment and clears his throat. "You are certainly skilled enough at white magic. If that is what you wish to do, I will do all I can to support your endeavors."

"I— thank you." Linhardt stutters out, relieved that the professor interpreted his impulsive statement so generously. He tries to sit up too quickly and his head spins, swaying back and forth. Byleth places a hand on his shoulder again, pulling him gently back down.

"Take a moment. I'd rather you not pass out again."

"Right." Linhardt agrees.

Byleth's hand remains on his shoulder, one thumb rubbing back and forth gently, his head in the professor's lap. Linhardt looks up at him, the sun behind him making his hair and the edges of his face seem to glow. He watches as his professor gazes out across the battlefield at his other students, patching each other up after their fight, picking over the bandit camp for stolen goods to return to the merchants in town. He catches sight of the archer's body, taken down by Anette's axe mere seconds after the offending arrow shot, and frowns slightly.

From a distance, Linhardt thinks, the professor is nearly impossible to read. But this close up, where he can see the minute twitch of an eyebrow or curl of a lip, he's an open book. And a fascinating book, at that.

Try as he might, Linhardt can't seem to put that thought out of his mind. The professor— his professor, now— is even more of a puzzle than he realized that day at tea, the first time he saw him smile as Linhardt enthusiastically talked his ear off. A puzzle he wants desperately to solve.

Linhardt wonders, as Byleth's thumb brushes over his shoulder, if he feels the same thing Linhardt feels.

"Professor," Linhardt begins, his mind immediately racing as he thinks of a hundred ways to say what he wants to say, none of them quite right. Byleth looks down at him, his expression open, eyes full of an affection that Linhardt prays is not imagined. He can feel his heart fluttering in his chest like wings against his ribs, and for the first time in a long time, Linhardt feels _awake._

"Yes, Linhardt?"

"Nothing," Linhardt lies. "Thank you."

"Of course." Byleth replies. "And thank you, too."


End file.
